


The Bible and a Good Dog

by Same_Rules_Apply



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Dreams, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 09:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12078396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Same_Rules_Apply/pseuds/Same_Rules_Apply
Summary: Thomas Shelby is mourning. Thomas Shelby doesn't want visitors. Thomas Shelby is high as a god damn kite.





	The Bible and a Good Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece in a long time. I've forsaken certain habits for far too long. Also no beta, so this will end up being updated, and any help would be greatly appreciated.

Tommy scrapes his eyes down Solomon’s form as he exits with his usual self-appointed royal flourish. Magic glasses. Christ. The man was sodding off it. In truth he must be off it himself. For some god forsaken reason he nearly giggled at Solomon’s ranting. Fucking lunacy. Not a bark of laughter, like when one of the boys was making a right fool of themselves. Not a chuckle at a joke, albeit a poorly told one by one of the boys. No, he felt a small bubble of hysterical giggles rising in his chest. Fucks sake. Solomons was as likely to beat him bloody in his own home for summoning him as he was to hear Tommy out. And here he is nearly encouraging the bastard by giggling at his crazy fucking antics.   
Solomons hasn't held a gun to his head since that first meeting. But that did the trick, Tommy knows he is baiting a volatile man. Yet whenever Solomons waxes poetic in his own violent way Tommy cannot help but be amused. 

It began when Tommy brought Solomons soldiers. And Tommy cannot shake the habit of thinking of the men around him as soldiers. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so god damned reckless with their lives if he could think of them as anything else. Though that’s doubtful. He loves his men. But they know the way of business.   
Solomons hit his man, and Tommy felt his eye twitch 

But by the end of his little speech. Starting right around the time he refers to himself as a sodomite, and perhaps that’s when all this truly started, Tommy finds himself trying not to laugh. The sheer absurdity of his apology makes Tommy want to howl with laughter. Tommy thinks he can see the mischief alight as Solomons gives him the floor.   
Sick bastard, Tommy thinks, though he’s unsure as to which of them he’s referring to. 

With the help of extra medicine he took on the sly, he dreams of a figure reading the bible over his bed. Except the voice is a beard scratched baritone that rings out a chord of malice and laughter. The words a language he knows but does not understand. The broad beast stands before him, his words an accusative promise, his eyes never unsteady. No matter how his voice reels, from growl to snarl to howl, his eyes bore unrelenting. Tommy cannot look away.

Tommy finds he does want to know what happens next. 

He wakes up with the phantom of baker’s bread and smoke on his teeth and morning wood like he hasn’t had since the war. The sort of morning wood born from sex and that harsh edge of adrenaline pressed to his pulse, like the jaws of a wolf. 

It’s when they are out of the vault. Solomons shoots him a shrewd glance, leaning in just as he parts ways from this lovely band of lunatics. 

“But don’t assume you can summon up a wolf already used to the snow to protect you. If you needed a dog, I know a guy, set up shop to the man who makes my glasses.”  
That night he could only hear the voice. The unmistakable sound. He realizes he blindfolded and the voice is next to his ear. The melody of words growing familiar in hazy re-occurrence. But tonight they are far closer than usual. It is in this moment of comprehension that one calloused rough hand grips his throat. And my god what had the Russian demon awoken in him. He is conscious for the first time in this dream that he is hard. And stark naked. 

He feels this when finger tips, flat and wide press down his sternum and over the plains of his belly. He hears his breaths, harsh and low, mix with the endless recitation. And its maddening, these words, sounds he could repeat with no knowledge of what they mean. 

All madness comes to a head when he feels a small cold cylindrical piece of metal against the leaking head of cock. The chanting stops, breath across his cheek, curling over his ear carrying three words: 

You forgot something. 

And what is irrevocably the pin of a grenade is slipped beneath his foreskin, pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock. The circular grip is looped over his head so it catches on sensitive skin. It’s a perilous hold, sure to fall out, but as long as fingertips follow the crease and lines of his hips and thighs, another hand coming back to his neglected neck. 

It is a dream, and the physics bending surrealism of the dream world allowed the pin to stay in place as Solomons grips him a bit too tight and in measured strokes. 

Yes, he most assuredly wants to know what happens next.


End file.
